


100

by Areiton



Category: Star Trek, Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 100 word fics, Angst, Destiel - Freeform, Drabbles, Emotional Repression, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, MCD, Mourning, Pack Feels, Stilinski Family Feels, inappropriate use of popsicles, selkie!Stiles, spirk, sterek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-09 04:13:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12268662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: A wolfsbane bullet. A Popsicle and fan. A pane of glass. A place to call home--100 word ficlets (give or take a word or 20.)





	1. Words & Links

  
[Bullet (Sterek, Teen Wof) ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12268662/chapters/27883275)

  
[Wash (Destiel, Supernatural) ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12268662/chapters/27883293)

  
[Haven (Sterek, Teen Wolf) ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12268662/chapters/27883308)

  
[Fan (Sterek, Teen Wolf) ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12268662/chapters/27883338)

  
[Ash (Sterek, Teen Wolf) ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12268662/chapters/27883362)

  
[Glass (Spirk, Star Trek) ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12268662/chapters/27883380)

  
[Merekat (Sterek, Teen Wolf)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12268662/chapters/27883419) 

  
[Harbor (Sterek, Teen Wolf) ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12268662/chapters/27883434)

  
[Grave (Sterek, Teen Wolf) ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12268662/chapters/27883458)

  
[Mistake (Sterek, Teen Wolf) ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12268662/chapters/27883476)

  
[Drowning (Spirk, Star Trek) ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12268662/chapters/27883497)


	2. Bullet

It’s such a small thing. Small and fucking _simple._

After everything, it’s almost impossible to believe that something so small and simple, not even a wolfsbane bullet, could do so much. The others are moving, crowding around him and he can hear the screams from them as they realize what he already knows, but they’re human cries, grief driving all the supernatural from them, leaving them almost painfully human.

Lydia is shaking and screaming, but it isn’t a banshee wail.

He listens, but there isn’t a rabbit fast heartbeat, isn’t a quick laughing retort.

Just the sound of the bullet casing hitting the ground, echoing in his ears, the sound of Stiles hitting the ground drowning out everything else, a two beat rhythm that’s fucking _deafening._

He turns away.

There’s a bullet in the loft. It’s wolfsbane.

It’ll end this godawful melody. It’ll end everything.


	3. Wash

He watches the water as it runs clear, watches it splash over his hands, icy cold and shocking. He rubs his hands together, and the water runs pink, a familiar color and he’s back there, in countless hotel rooms, washing blood from his hands.

For a moment, they shake, a subtle tremor leftover from years of trauma and loss, from being ripped from heaven and thrown into humanity.

He rubs the smooth silver on his finger, as much a grounding ritual as to get it clean, and finishes washing cherry juice from his hands.

It’s not blood, not anymore. Dean kisses him, and he tastes like cherry pie and home, and when Castiel’s hands shake, Dean’s wrap around him, hold him still, smoothing over his wedding band, washing away his fears.


	4. Haven

The loft usually rings with silence. The pad of his feet on the ground echoes, bouncing back whispering taunts, teasing him with memories of a big house in the woods, a house that rang with noise and shouts and the sweet scent of home.

He hates the quiet emptiness of the loft.

*

He’s drawn, repeatedly, to the Stilinski home. It doesn’t always make sense, why he stumbles there, wounded and struggling to heal, why he lurks in the shadows of the yard, listening to Stiles and the Sherriff. It doesn’t make sense why he sleeps better on their couch, surrounded by their scents and the sheriff’s low voice, by the rabbit fast drumbeat of Stiles’ heart, than he has since he pressed himself between Laura and Cora and listened to his mother howl.

He doesn’t know why this place that is so human and different from his pack home feels like a haven.

*

His betas come here, often enough that he doesn’t react to their scent anymore, and he comes here, often enough that John only grunts at him when he finds Derek on the couch with a book, startled alert by his presence, and Stiles is chattering about something, arguing with his father about the full moon run, and Derek sighs, and turns the page, and lets the warm scent of his pack and the haven they have given him, lull him back to quiet peace.


	5. Fan

It was sticky hot. Too hot for clothes. The AC broke three days ago, and it’d be another two before his dad was off to look at it. 

And he had been firmly forbidden from attempting repairs years ago, when he started an electric fire. 

It was, actually, a small fire and it wasn't completely fair he was still paying for that one mistake. 

He isn't terribly surprised when Derek crawls in his window, wearing a thin tank top and shorts. He snorts at Stiles, who mumbles, his voice distorted by the fan he's  lying naked in front of, “it's too hot for sex.” 

Derek presses a hot kiss to the younger boy’s forehead and a cherry Popsicle into his hand and says, “I'm gonna fix your AC, dumbass.” 

His voice is unapologetically fond and Stiles hums happily as he opens the popsicle. 

“Grade A boyfriend,” he pronounces. “I am definitely a fan.” 


	6. Ash

The ground is still wet from the hoses that worked to put out the fire.

The house is still smoldering, a wrecked ruin, and Derek can feel the phantom flames licking at his cheeks as he kneels in the ash and mud and howls—

“Derek,” a hand closes on his shoulder, pulls him close, and he thrashes, fighting, “ _Derek.”_

There’s a scent, familiar and elusive, wild. Sweat, soap, sugar, the touch of Adderall. He inhales and arms tighten around him, and he wakes.

“It was a dream,” Stiles promises. His kiss pushes away the taste of death and ash.

Just a dream. 


	7. Glass

His mother always told him that he was too serious, too analytical and logical and he allowed himself the illogical pleasure of that observation.

There has never been anything logical about the way he reacts to the Captain. Not the anger the man arouses, not the frustration he doesn’t want to feel or the quiet pleasure in the other man’s company.

There is nothing logical about loving the cool blue of his endless eyes, always bright and smiling.

Except now. Now when he is pressed against the glass,  his hand splayed and his eyes glassy and unseeing.

The Captain dies there, beyond his touch, held apart by a thin pane of glass.

And Spock screams, illogical emotions shattering into blind fury.


	8. Meerkat

Derek didn’t own a TV.

He barely own fucking _furniture._

Stiles had a theory that the lack of possessions was why he found the werewolf in his bedroom so often.

Usually, when he banged in, Derek was already standing, shoulders hunched, face set in a familiar scowl.

This time, though, he—

Stops short.

Derek is sprawled on his bed, a soft look on his face, Stiles’ laptop balanced on his abs. There’s a weird noise coming from it, and Derek’s eyes are wide and almost _guilty._

“What are you doin?” Stiles asks, slowly, letting the door swing shut.

Derek shakes his head, and reaches for the laptop, the tips of his ears pink.

“I need you to—”

Stiles snatches the laptop away and pulls it open, ignoring Derek’s sharp, _“Stiles.”_

Baby meerkats scamper around, playing on the African plains as some British dude narrates a youtube video and Stiles blinks at it.

He turns slowly to Derek who actually _whines_ in distress.

And grins, wide. “Dude, scoot over. You gotta see the kittens Scotty sent me last week.”

Derek looks nervous, but he slides over and leans into Stiles, a warm heavy weight at his side as they watch animals playing, curled together like puppies.

 


	9. Harbor

You can feel the waves, the tug of them as you watch. Steady seafoam eyes gaze at you, unblinking and patient. He sits on the rocks and waits, and you think he is the most dangerous thing you’ve ever seen.

He smiles and kisses you when you sit at his feet, naked and shivering, you sealskin folded across his knees like an offering.

The ocean sings a mournful song behind you and it will always be your home.

But his hands are gentle in your hair and he murmurs against your lips, _“Stiles,”_

It is home, but he is your safe harbor.


	10. Grave

The wind is cool. He tucks his hands into his pockets, because he doesn’t want them to shake. The headstone is grey, a heavy weight, and his heart stumbles a little as he reads it.

Trips over _Stilinski_ and for a second, there is only mindless grief.

He takes a deep breath and a hand tugs on his pants, impatient, until he folds himself down. Sits just beside the grave.

“Hey, Mom,” Stiles says, a sad smile in his voice and Derek leans into him, reassuring them both with his weight. “Thought it was time for you to meet Derek.”


	11. Mistake

He stares at her. She’s blonde, tiny, leans into him, all submissive lines and bright smiles. She blushes prettily when Derek murmurs to her, and her laughter actually sounds like fucking bells. It turns his stomach and he shakes his head.

He’d thought—something. He doesn’t know what. That he could stop this.

Derek looks up, grinning wide and content in his black tux, the girl he’d married radiant in white at his side, and his eyes brighten, when he finds Stiles.

“I shouldn’t have come,” he mumbles, and Scott makes a sympathetic noise as he pushes Stile forward. “This was a mistake.”


	12. Drowning

Spock spends five years in the black and he doesn’t realize how much he has changed. How they seep in, fill up all the empty places he did not know he had, water pouring into a jar, brilliant blue and yellow and light. He does not realize much chess with Jim and verbal sparring with McCoy and quiet experiments in his lab with Chekov has affected his emotional control. He does not see how far from Vulcan he has come, even if Nyota comments on it.   
He does not allow himself to consider that he is happy or what would happen if this were snatched away, like Vulcan That Was.   
But then Jim dies and even Spock can’t deny what that does to him, to his already fraying grip on logic.   
It hurts, to walk away. He allows himself to feel that, even when no lie will permit him to deny the emotionalism of the sentiment. He allows himself to ache for the loss of a captain he he never thought he loved. The loss of friends he never expected. The loss of a universe that he will never explore.   
For three days, he allows himself that grief.   
When he steps off the shuttle onto the arid sands of New Vulcan, he has pushed aside the feeling, locked it deep within his mind where it can trouble no one. Here, where the air is thin and hot and dry, he does not feel anything but empty. He does not feel like emotions he never anticipated or wanted are creeping in and drowning him.   
Kolinahr is a colorless, dry thing. There is no drowning. There is no blue.   
And he is not happy, here, but he believes that now–like this–he can survive.


End file.
